I eventually did make it out of that bush. I did it in a day even though that didn’t feel possible yesterday. It started to feel like the day and the trees and that forgotten road might be the last thing left in this world. It’s amazing where your mind can take you in such a short time and I am grateful for the exposure of that image too. I crossed the Zambezi after dark, knowing not how wide the river, but how long the bridge was, and briefly thought back to our Victoria Falls days, somewhere upstream from here. Police are only positioned on state boundaries now, though they are more surprised to see me driving alone than anything else.

I stop in a town known only for its placement along the road to more important places and coincide with a bus load of passengers, destined for those very locations, stopping at my same diner to be fed. It is still warm and I raise a hand to acknowledge the men sitting on the veranda as I step past them. They watch me over their beers, mildly curious, their conversation slow to begin with but I don’t look back – a certain sign of confidence.

I continue out of town to the miserable Cuacua lodge for the night and haggle more than I should for this semi-abandoned place with no guests. The morning sees an important general clean and re-tidy, the food box getting a good scrub, I am now ready for the next step and – fresh, free and close – I continue into the bush! I reach Mopeia and follow tracks the best way I can. They lead me into corn fields so I turn back and cross bridges made from logs. Small shacks are nestled in the trees and two men stroll past me with a bicycle between them as though we are not somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Worry creeps in and options are looking less promising when I find some kind of farm house in a small clearing. A man gets up from his shaded resting place – apparently alone – and points me soundly towards Casa Branca. I need only cross one more small river before I am confidently on my way.

It is mid-morning and I can sense that I am close. I don’t know how exactly, maybe I’ve learnt the bush more intimately than I have realised already. I round a final bend – the road suddenly interrupting property as I have been interrupting it. Bush opens to a wide settlement, cut in half by the road – a low fence now lining either side of it – various buildings on each side. I am probably driving too fast when the chubby, bald man whistles and waves me back from a workshop building on my right.

I know this is Casa Branca but I have sailed through it, surprised, and suddenly wondering how much more there is to this place before I could even brake and turn back, finding myself in the bush on the way out again.

I roll sheepishly back to the advancing man, my window down as always, “Are you Fernando?”

He might be chubby, but his arms are strong and his hands are ready. Blue eyes are spirited, confidence apparent, “Yeh bru, who are you?”

“Ahh haha!” I slump back in my seat, momentarily bathing in glorious relief before putting my palm up for his, “I am Luca. I saw your place on an app I am using to travel around… There’s not much out here and I thought I’d come through on my way up to Malawi…”

“Ja bru, no problem! Welcome…” I swing the door open and gratefully touch the compacted earth, “Left hand drive huh? Sheesh, you always drive so fast!”

“Faster when I can! Mate, I feel like I’ve been driving in a loop for ever! Long way from Beira… I left yesterday morning.”

“Well you’re here now. You can relax. Actually, it works out well… My wife is away, staying with our second daughter who is having a baby.” He’s my dad’s age, and already kind of reminds me of him. So his daughters must be my age, give or take. “Awesome, these cars… Where did you say you were from?” He stops briefly at the green registration plate.

“Well I’m from Australia. But the car comes from Norway. Two young fellas drove it down to Namibia and gave it to me when we met. They said I should drive it back home for them… I’m heading to Tanzania for the moment.”

“Long way bru,” he laughs at me, “No trouble with the car?”

“Yeh, long way. But good so far. We had this canopy built in Swakopmund so we could travel together. We put these tyres on too, which have been great!” I push on one tyre with the ball of my foot, which I seem to like doing while I talk, “A rubber gasket gave way down in Tofo… But the boys had a spare, which was bloody good news for me! They were pretty well equipped and the car just keeps going… It’s burning oil though. A guy in Beira told me it can keep going for now, as long as I keep it topped up.”

“Agh!” Scorn. “I’ll have a look tomorrow… These guys don’t know! I will show you which product to use, and if you put really thick oil, it won’t bypass the pistons so easily… I have owned two like this – same model – and know every inch of it. They are the best!” He grips the rear frame and rocks it lovingly, “Park it over there, I’ll show you around,” pointing to the other side of the road – the other set of buildings.

Black guys gather at a distance, uneasily following – awaiting instruction. I smile to them politely, but receive only blank looks in return. “Bom dia…”

The grounds are all flat sand. Raked clean of the leaves that must constantly fall from the plentiful trees dispersed throughout the large area. We step into the main building. “This was the first thing we built here.” Kitchen and dining area to the left, lounge and television to the right. All surrounding walls are made totally of fly screen and the foliage outside is noticeable from anywhere inside the house. Air can pass through but it is never so cold to be a problem and the rain cannot enter with the generous eaves all around.

He passes me a large stainless steel bowl and selects a knife from the draw, “Let’s go for a walk, eh?”

Stepping back onto the sand we head out into the greenery. The first building across from us is a bathroom. “That one is my room,” he points to the right – a rondavel further away, “And yours is also near there – behind those trees – I’ll show you later.”

We pass some kind of storage shed before the garden beds open up before us. Bed after bed after bed are lined with every vegetable I can name and some fruits that I can’t! Carrots and lettuce and spinach. Potatoes, tomatoes, pumpkin and broccoli! Beans, zucchini, garlic and onion. “Wooow!”

“Water is key,” he says looking towards a bushy area ahead, “That is all swamp under there. A big dam that never dries up! I have also dug two other wells for more water around the other side…”

Now the trees are no longer just trees… Papaya! Banana, coconut… avocado! “All this bush here is maracujá.” Passion fruit. “But look at this one… From Brazil!” He delicately folds back leaves to reveal enormous yellow passion fruits, mistakeable for grapefruits! “Here, you try…”

He hands me one and I bite into it, breaking it open and sucking out the delicious sweetness. I wipe my hand across my chin and then on my shorts grinning with pleasure, “Is that a mango tree!” It’s huge.

“Ja bru there is a few around. We have so many mangoes coming soon… This place will be crazy with people picking! And you see this side?” He sweeps his right arm across the next area as we reach a small crest, “This is the Pineapple plantation.”

I never saw a pineapple plantation before. Each plant is like the spikey top part of a pineapple – a small bush in its own right. “Every plant makes one pineapple only…” he explains patiently, “You see?” Again, he separates the leathery leaves, now revealing a small bulb in the heart of the plant. It is still small but, as he said, each plant has one unmistakeable little pineapple growing inside!

I have stumbled across a magical forest of delicious food, feasting the eyes and exhilarating the soul. The notion of living like this, romantic – as part of this immense environment, working for your own life and food – seducing me instantly. Inspiration invigorated with the unexpected surroundings, I am falling quickly into the serenity – the integrity of a peaceful and wholesome lifestyle – admirable.

“Não não nãodesta maneira! Caralho!!” Fernando suddenly booms over my shoulder and across his garden beds, destroying the tranquillity and spitting profanities at his workers as they fumble nervously with a long watering hose. “Fuck these useless bastards! They just destroy everything you give them, it’s unbelievable! There is three of them to come and water this little garden, and they still can’t do it properly!” He is already marching towards them, furious. “I even bought a manual pump so there is nothing left to break. They broke the dials and the starter chord and snapped the attachment for the hose! Now I make one stay there and pedal the pump,” I notice the worker nearest the dam, his feet still positioned on the foot pump, “These two just have to manage the hose and look!” He turns to the guys with the hose, exasperated, “Como isso, isso!” Like this! He is bellowing and they are shitting themselves. “I bought this hose one weekago… and it’s destroyed! Look here!” He displays the kinks along it, “These bastards are going to make me madI tell you!” He is really getting worked up and animated and it’s kind of funny to me, though it must be hell for his workers. He unravels the hose and spreads it across an open area. “Every day I show these monkeys how to do to it… Every day, the same story!” They wear faded shorts and have no shoes. These guys are young but I saw some older men earlier too. One of them wears a child’s jacket – far too small and heavy for the warm day. Bright green. It makes me smile.

We return to the task at hand. He selects lettuce and tomatoes and a papaya, calming down and placing the produce carefully in my bowl. “So how big is this place? How long have you been here?” I ask, meandering on.

“I have 2,000 acres here, mostly of bush which I try to preserve. I don’t own this land… I have been leasing it from the government for 20 years. It costs me 5,000 meticais per year – I employ a certain number of locals and end up giving a lot of this produce to the communities around the area…”

“5,000 meticais per year!” That can’t be right…“That’s like $100!”

“Ja bru, land is cheap in Africa. It is just useless bushland otherwise… I have cleared less than 20 acres. Slowly, slowly, you know? We have a big cashew nut plantation on the other side… 300 chickens and 100 goats – it fluctuates. There is a lot of corn growing now and some other things… It takes time to get it like this, but we live and eat well. I am not a rich man, but we have all that we need and everything we want.”

It’s the definition of a rich man in my eyes… We put the bowl down on the veranda. “Here, take your car and follow me,” and with that, he sets off across the hard sand on his bicycle. A fluffy white puppy has taken to me and I can’t refuse him. The friendly little thing gets a spot in the passenger seat as we move across the clearing and park my baby where he will stay.

“I use the bicycle to get around this place,” he explains, “My room to the workshop and to the kitchen and all around… It’s not far but it adds up! So that one is my room… And you can stay in here.”

He opens the door to my very own rondavel and I am already excited about my new home! It makes sense for toilets and showers to stay separate from sleeping and eating quarters, apart from the convenience we have adopted, of course. It is basic but there is good space and light, it’s all freshly painted and the bed is clean and comfortable.

I follow him back to the kitchen where he starts peeling potatoes and washing lettuce. “We gonna have some eggs and potato chippies and salad for lunch huh? What you think?”

“Yeh great, excellent… Thank you.”

“Just leave them there. The boy works in the kitchen, he will wash the dishes and clean up.” Lunch was simple but delicious and this might also be an unexpected little health retreat opportunity. No sugar, coffee, alcohol or cigarettes to start off with. Let’s see what other detox delights I will profit from during my stay.

It seems there is a lot for us to discuss – for me to be filled in on. Over lunch Fernando described the satellite booster, which he bought and installed for Wi-Fi and television. It is relatively new and is powered by batteries that can last all day. Certain things require this; like the phone signal and refrigerator and some lights. In the evening, he runs a large generator to power the other lights and features including television and hot water service and of course – to recharge all the batteries until the following evening. He ran all the cables and installed all the power points and lights and machinery here.

“Come. Let’s go for another walk.” He leaves his bike behind and we walk together, across the road and towards the shed from which he waved me down this morning.

Two vehicles are parked in the centre of the area with a big workshop to the left. An enclosure is to my right and another is directly ahead… A dog comes running towards us as we round the cars, nearing the shed. A rope is tied to her collar, the other end of which slides along a wire running towards the rear enclosure so she can move around a bit.

“Why do you tie this one up?” I have noticed a similar dog hovering around and three smaller ones – as well as the fluffy little white one that doesn’t venture this far from home yet.

“These two are the parents of the three pups,” he begins, “But this one, she loves going into the bush. She is too good and can spend days in the bush. She always comes back. But she is a problem… Because she leads my other dogs away and they don’t always make it back,” he tells me. “You see this one,” he looks around for the father. He is a strong and dog. Lean and hardy, I can see… But limping.

“Yeh. What happened with him?”

“They were away in the bush together… Yesterday I could hear him crying out there,” he looks past his corn crop, “I went and found him caught in a trap. Have you seen the traps they use?”

I can imagine the ones he means. The ones that slam shut around a leg when stepped on.

“You see, that’s what happens. She never gets caught, but she has cost me too many dogs. She will bring her babies out there before long, and they won’t all come back either.”

I pat the mum and the pups come over too. She doesn’t like being tied up, her spirit is wild. She is a dog of the bush alright.

“What’s gonna happen with his leg? How bad is it?”

“There is a piece of his foot hanging off. We will need to hold him down while I squeeze some anaesthetic into it. Then we will have to cut it off. It will heal itself if we can do that… but he knows, and he is a strong bastard too. It’s not easy to hold him… he’ll bite too, the bastard. Hey Tarzan?”

It’s like he knows we’re talking about him. And if he lets us help him we might just save his life. I like him and Fernando does too. But his pride is as injured as his grotesque foot, which he licks feebly as he hobbles back to the shade.

“You should have seen him last week. He is wild, that dog! There was a massive monkey caught in a trap over there…” Again he points toward his corn field, “70kgs it was… and it was going maaad!! Later I show you a photo… Tarzan was going crazy! He loves chasing monkeys… I went there with my BIG panga – longer than your arm – and cut him like this.” He brings the side of his right hand down hard and stops it just above my left eyebrow. “BAAANG! One shot, like that!”

Shit. Bloody hell. Ok…“What do you do with the monkeys?”

“I smoke them on the fire. It preserves the meat until I need it… Then I feed it to the dogs – piece by piece. They eat my corn, bloody nuisance. Look, you see? There they are now! Wait here, I’m coming back…”

He takes off back towards his kitchen, leaving me with his dogs by the big workshop. It has a high roof with two big 4WDs parked to the left. There is a manual winch with chains for lifting engine blocks and one of those trenches that allows you to get under a car without jacking it up. The other part is all closed off by chain-link fence, locked with a gate and padlocked. I can see quite an impressive arrangement of tools and machinery – everything in its designated position – from drilling equipment to clamps and bench saws. Vices, hand tools, hooks and cables. Paint products and engine parts and ladders and fuel.

He is back on his bicycle, eagerly arriving – yet trying to remain stealthy. “They are too clever,” he is conceding already, “they know my bald head… They will be gone for sure huh? Can you see them?” He is really after these monkeys and now has a rifle slung over his shoulder. Leaning his bike against a fence post and positioning himself behind the corner of the shed, he looks out to the trees beyond the corn. “Gone,” he’s not surprised. “Next time it’s up to you. You know how to shoot?”

Me? “Ummm. Errrr, well… yeh. I mean… yeh. I’ve shot a gun once or twice…”

“Here. It’s like this, OK?” He keeps the barrel pointed forward and leans the weapon on its side. “This is just a .22, the safety switch is here. There are no bullets in the chamber, four in the magazine… When you pull the bolt back, you will see a casing fall into position. Yes? Now you push it forward again and it slides into the chamber. It is armed, but the safety is still active.”

“Right, ok…” I take the gun and hold it up loosely, locating the tree where the monkeys were through the scope.

“Can you see the two sets of crosshairs? One at the front and one at the back… You need to align them for accuracy. It helps to lean on something solid.”

I bring the gun down again and feel the safety with my thumb. Then I press it firmly and it clicks into the firing position. There is silence between us as I bring the scope to my eye again. “Well, they are definitely gone,” I flick the safety back on and hand him back the gun – partly intrigued, partly relieved.

He pulls back the bolt and clears the chamber by pushing the casing back down into the magazine before sliding the bolt into the closed position again. Slinging the weapon over his shoulder, we continue the tour.

“I saw your shed briefly,” as we were, “you have quite the setup!”

“Ja bru, you gotta have things out here… and be able to do things. No use having to call people and pay them every time. Besides, who am I gonna call? I am specialised as a diesel mechanic – back from the Angola Army days. But I know everything about every kind of engine. That has been priceless out here. But you learn, you know? I have learned construction… And animals… Farming… Life.”

We are just arriving at the rear enclosure, walking clockwise around the area from the tool shed. “Look at Tarzan now, for example… you gotta be strong and do something. Huh? The goats! We keep them in here. The boys are out walking them in the bush now, they’ll be back soon. You know… sometimes the pregnancy can be complicated. Like, if the baby is stuck or in the wrong position. For new mothers especially, it can happen. If you do nothing, she will die for sure… and the baby too. So, what you gonna do?”

It’s a test but I like it. “Well, you gotta pull it out.” So far, so good.

“Ja bru, that’s for sure! But how? What you gonna grab? How does it come out?”

I want to be fast, like I know what I’m saying. But I need to be right too. I don’t think or visualise or take any time. I quickly think of a human baby… The little I know about child birth would be, “Well, the head comes out first.” Doesn’t it?

Wrong. He puts both hands up, squeezing his biceps to his ears. “Front legs first!” He yells the lesson at me and I am lapping it up like a puppy dog, “You have to reach inside her bru, and feel… maybe you must turn the baby around or whatever!”

As if on cue, a bell sounds from the bush and I am soon surrounded by the heard of goats, anxious to return home. Brown ones, black ones, big ones and small ones – they each have at least some white on them too and I love seeing them.

“These two guys take the goats into the bush for the afternoon,” I notice the workers taking up the rear of the animal colony, “Easy life huh? They go out there and sleep, and get paid for it!”

He mutters something to them and I acknowledge them briefly as we move off to complete the lap. The guys seem happy and vibrant, simple and peaceful. I like observing them and am happy to finally be getting closer to unavoidable interaction.

“All the cashew trees I told you about are out that way,” the direction to the left – accessible between the goat and chicken areas and beyond.

The next wire fence is a big area and the birds will head into the safety of their shelter before long. Big chickens, little chickens, fluffy chickens and brown chickens. Grey chickens, black chickens and…“You have ducks too?” That’s cool. “You must get so many eggs huh! Great.”

He takes his bike as we cross back to the other side. I stop to admire the beautiful flowers he has growing along the roadside fence.

“Why were you coming from that side, anyway?” he asks me, “There’s just bush there…”

“Yeh, tell me about. I know that for sure,” I mutter. “The map that I had didn’t show another way. I reckon I was lucky to make it at all in the end!”

“What are you talking about?” he looks puzzled, “The main road is that way bru.” He points right, not the direction I was coming from but the direction I was driving towards! “20kms. It’s a pretty good road too…” That hurts. I see him piece together what I drove through and amusement cracks his face. It’s the same moment that I remember back to the review on the app that I found him on in the first place. ‘20kms from the main road, well worth the drive.’ Grrr

“Yeh, I took the scenic way,” I wrap it up cheerfully, “That’s why I’m here isn’t it!” He chuckles.

From the kitchen building I can just make out my rondavel and the pile of tree trunks – massive logs – piled behind it. “Say, what are those logs anyway? You have more construction in mind or something?”

“That’s my wood,” he snorts already, “They come onto my land and steal my wood bru. They cut the trees and disappear. You have to be fast, you have to stay onto them.”

“So how did they end up here?”

“I went out there and found them loading my trees one day. I went straight up to the main guy and I told him, ‘Hey bru, thank you. You doing me a favour, because I wanted those trees cut down.’ I told him, ‘Really, thank you bru… How did you know?’ He tell me the usual: ‘Oh no, no… we didn’t know. This isn’t your land.’ I stopped him and I said, ‘listen bru, don’t worry OK? It’s not your problem. You bring the logs to my house now and you unload them. Then you leave your truck and your chainsaw too and tell your boss to come and see me… He can buy them back when he’s ready.’” He looks at me simply and shrugs, “That’s all bru. Hehe very simple. You got to be tough to survive out here or these bastards will eat you alive, you understand what I am telling you? You gotta be fair and tough… But tough first!”

“Yeh? And what happened?”

“What, what happened? They left the logs and everything and the boss came two days later… Telling me ‘Oh I don’t control where they cut and it’s not my fault and it’s my truck… Blah blah bullshit!’ I just told him how much it will cost him to have his truck and chainsaw back and that’s it. I said ‘My friend, this time we make a deal because next time I will keep the truck too!’ Then the bastard… He start complaining about going to the police and all this nonsense and I get bloody madand I grab him hard – hard – like this, in front of his friend and I tell him, ‘Hey! HEY!! I am giving you a chance here! And you not listening to what I telling you!’ I scream to him in his bloody face and I tell him, ‘Don’t worry about the police my friend because I will break you bloody neck you bastard! And then I bring you to the police!’ That’s what I tell him and then I kick his ass outside bru!”

The rondavel is still dark but I have awoken naturally and slept enough. The only window is by the door and shaded by a curtain. I straighten the bed sheets, doing a few little stretches before opening the door to the new day.

My phone vibrates with incoming messages as I approach the kitchen building signalling my entry to Wi-Fi range. Fernando is with his workers in the yard and three of the dogs surround me as I approach them, “Morning bru!”

“Morning. How are you? Bom dia…” I give some eye contact and a little smile as I stoop to caress poor Tarzan and the fluffy fluff ball. The other pups don’t come over the way these ones do, preferring to bark insecurely at me from a distance.

“Shiiit man…” Tarzan allows me to lift his injured leg and I can get close enough to examine where the trap had him. On inspection, I understand that the base of a dog’s foot has four ‘finger pads’, then a kind of main ‘palm pad’ and further back, almost like a little thumb. It seems that he was snared just behind that large soft area of his main palm pad, because that’s where most of the foot has become detached. The ‘thumb’ and whole ‘wrist’ is intact, but then the raw flesh with a piece of protruding bone is unmistakeable. The rest of the pads are hanging painfully, but there is still too much flesh holding it all together for a natural process to save the day.

“You see bru, we must cut off that piece before the injury can start to heal itself. I will look for the anaesthetic today and see what we can do huh? Come on, let’s have some breakfast first.”

I read some whatsapp messages as we step inside, letting Fernando lead the way with our breakfast. “Well there’s some news…” The Norwegians. “Olve – the owner of the car – is suggesting that in fact it’s better for them also if the car does NOT return to Europe,” I read aloud. It’s kind of a relief, but also – really – the only way this was ever going to play out. “He is saying that his insurance is so high, that it wouldn’t even be worth paying another half year on it!”

“So what? You are free now? No Europe?”

“No Europe… He is saying to enjoy the car and do as I please with it. And he says that… Actually, it is best if they are no longer connected to it at all! The car is officially left in Africa.” So that’s it then. I read on…“We can keep discussing… yudda yudda yudda… We may need a demolition certificate from a garage stating that the car is in fact cancelled and some paperwork mailed back... Yudda yudda yudda… And can agree on a value figure as we arrive at it, or when you sell the car!” I finish reading before looking up, “We hope you are enjoying your trip… Pictures look awesome mate… So strange being back home in this white and sophisticated world, people are crazy man! Wishing I was still out on the road with you and Bolver, REALLY missing Africa… Looks like Joel is actually planning to come up here after all! Haha Awesome Take care…” My eyebrows raise in excitement at the mention of Joel really going up there! He’s still in Zanzibar Island – Tanzania… Waiting for me to arrive! “So that’s it!” I look to Fernando again as he slices fruit and produces some packets from the pantry.

“Lekker bru. So where you gonna sell it? The certificate is easy… Even I can make you one here Haha! And who is Bolver?”

“Oh brother, you sound like Olve already,” I laugh. “Bolver is the name they had for the car,” I explain, “It is their two names combined… Awesome guys! But I have loosely renamed it Bush Baby.”

He chuckles, “OK bru. So what you gonna do? If you wanna come back here at the end of your trip, maybe I can buy that car from you.” He has sliced banana and papaya and coconut flesh and laid out oats and a variety of seeds and nuts. He mixes milo into a cup of hot milk and I see when he pours it methodically over his cereal that his movements are a long standing breakfast routine.

At the last moments before eating, he stops and looks at me. “Let us say a few words of thanks before we eat…” I learned the drill yesterday. I am happy to vocalise gratitude for our meal – that’s fine. “Dear heavenly father we give thanks for the food we are about to receive. We give thanks for our good health and for bringing us together as you have. Father, we trust that you will guide us and keep us safe on the endeavours of a new day, showing us strength to carry out our path as you intend. In your blessed name, Amen.”

“Amen.” OK. I clear my throat and take some fruit, assembling an excellent breakfast. Internally, on some level, I also have gratitude for every such meal. Also each place and encounter and experience. I suppose vocalising it brings it to life in a conscious and powerful way.

“I also heard from a friend I made along the way. He is only 21 years old and is riding a bicycle from Cape Town to Tanzania. I met him crossing the border into Namibia, even before I had this car…” I wait for a reaction and see the smile creep across his face.

“You guys are mad,” he laughs. “A bicycle? To Tanzania!”

“A crappy bicycle from the supermarket in Cape Town,” I laugh too, “He has no money… He made it through Namibia and Botswana and saw Victoria Falls already. He’s doing well and must be seeing amazing places in a special way.” I’m really happy for young Derek, proud to share his story, “He just text me saying he met two crazy guys driving a rickshaw to Cairo… Apparently they are trying to break a record for fastest African crossing in a Rickshaw! Check this picture…” It is amazing what can happen when you make a vision. Nothing else can stop you once you are on that track and Derek is proving it – against all odds and doubters. Let them doubt.

I show him a picture of a tiny white rickshaw with two guys wedged in the front and Derek – bicycle on the roof – squashed across their bags in the back. They are all excitedly waving and the image draws another chuckle from Fernando, “It looks like he’s better off riding his damn bike!” Haha, There’s plenty of time for that. It looks like he’s having a ball.

“So Mr Carpenter.” He changes the discussion. “You wanna build something today? I want to make something for the maracujà plants… Like a structure for them to creep over and hang down, instead of just growing through the mud and up the papaya tree there, you know?”

“Yeh cool, let’s do that! I’m sure you have everything organised?” I bring the plates to the sink and we step into our mission together.

First we go to the site of the maracujà bush and consider how it should be. “The timber I have is in lengths of 2.5 metres,” he starts.

“OK great. The posts can go half a metre into the ground, and 2 metres is a great height to stand underneath and pick the fruits from above…” I can visualise what will happen easily enough. “Maybe we can make the structure 2.5 metres in width… And how many bays should we make?”

I draw out the 2.5m width in the dirt and start along the length. “2.5 to here… and another 2.5 to here. Maybe a third one is also good? We’ll push the whole thing back a bit so it can start closer that way…?”

“Yeh good. Yeh bru, 3 bays… It’s enough.”

“OK so, 3 bays… One, two, three, four posts on each side. 8 posts. One, two, three timbers along each side, linking the posts together. That’s 6 for the sides.” I count them out as I calculate, “Now, how close do you wanna space the timbers over the top?” I spread my hands apart in consideration.

“Well I have wire that I will put also…”

“Ah ok, so then probably a timber every metre is ok then… And we can fit the wire how we want after.” It’s fairly straight forward. “So, if it’s approximately 7.5m long…” I can just count these off my fingers, making sure to include a timber for ‘0’, the first one. “8 timbers for the top will be spaced less than a metre apart. OK? So,” final calculation, “8 for the posts. 6 for the sides. And 8 more for the top. What do you think? Do you have enough?”

“Yeh OK. If we have an extra one to bring the top timbers closer together, then that’s also fine,” he says, satisfied as we head for the material near the chicken coops. I’d agree with that.

He has raw timber and – somehow – a milling saw to rip the timbers down to our chosen dimensions. I’m as impressed as I am surprised to find this kind of machinery out here and enjoy using the big saw to prepare the materials.

“We can paint it with this to protect from water damage too… Used engine oil!”

Again I am impressed. “Yeh Nice!” I was wondering what we could do for that and, although it is unorthodox from where I come from, it should work really well – not to mention an excellent method to dispose of the stuff!

“Maybe we can just paint the ends for now. Especially the ones going into the ground,” I’m getting a taste of having these workers at our disposal, “Your boys can paint the rest once it’s up. Otherwise it gets messy, you know?”

He nods his approval – directing them as I suggested – until I have a better idea. “Here, just pour all the oil into this bucket. And then dip the end of each timber in it, like this,” I take a timber and dunk it into the thick liquid. “Let it drip a bit first,” I show them the first one, “and then lay them down across these other timbers,” I quickly lay out two spare lengths as a drying rack, “Easy.”

“OK bru, good. We can leave the boys doing this. We go and have lunch now that everything is ready and come back to build it later, what do you say?”

“That sounds excellent to me!”

Again, we eat from the garden and give thanks. He talks a lot about religion and why 7thDay Adventists are the only religion that still abide by the original book and what the problems are with other forms of Christianity and why they cannot possibly be accurate and that Saturday is the real holy Sabbath day, not Sunday. “Saturday is the 7thday of the week! Changing it to Sunday was adopted out of convenience… they do not respect what is written in the book!” He quotes the bible to reinforce each point he makes and tells me of the horrors that his commanders faced in the Army, trying to make him run on Saturdays.

“I laughed in their face bru and I made them crazy! They would get so mad with me. And I tell them, ‘it’s ok bru, you punish me. Beat me… Put me in jail! You are only a man, and nothing you can do to me is more powerful than the desires of our holy Father!’” He looks to me, “Because in the end, only He can judge us. You understand? That time will come, and then people will be sorry.” He doesn’t respect people that don’t see this. He can’t see that far.

“But don’t you think that people from other religions feel the same way? Can’t you see that everyone has the same argument from the other side of the fence?” Surely. “That’s the whole problem mate. That’s why people keep killing each and getting nowhere.”

“But it says so in the book! How can you argue with that?”

“Because everyone reads the same book and has a different interpretation of it… That book was supposedly written 70 years after Jesus died. So the person that wrote it wasn’t even alive when Jesus died.”

“I know every phrase and I can explain to you whatever you need to make you understand the truth!”

“Mmmmm. What about your workers?” Same conversation, refreshing tangent.

“Haah!” He nearly chokes on his organic salad. “They don’t believe in anything! I read them the bible on Saturday mornings. But they just nod and agree. You can come too, and see. They believe what you tell them so that you like them. They don’t know anything bru. They only know eating, shitting and sleeping!”

His views are different, extreme even, but I like listening to him. Out here – as my only influence – and with his conviction, I believe what he tells me. Because here and now, like this, it is real. He is the alpha male, spellbinding and experienced. It’s his domain and he is King.

We’ve started a job and, “Well, that thing isn’t gonna build itself… You wanna go out there?” I suggest.

“Yeh, let’s go see what these guys are doing huh?”

He has a nice little cart for the tools and materials which we load and drag to the maracujà bush. I lay out the three side timbers and then the other three, marking where the post holes will go. It’s easy digging in the sand and the boys use pangas to make it happen. We drop the posts in and nail the timbers along each side, joining them over the posts properly. I check and adjust some of the heights before packing sand back around the base of each post securely. We space the cross members evenly and drive one big nail through each to fasten it as required. It takes shape pretty quickly when everything is prepared well and one of the guys starts spreading the protective engine oil over the members right away.

“I would usually put some angled braces to stiffen it up,” I explain to Fernando, assessing the structure’s stability, “but I think we can achieve that with the wire if we position and tighten it properly.”

That proves to be a more involved process, but I am happy with how it comes up in the end. We both are. “Aah good!” he says as we step back and admire the end result. He stands underneath, pretending to pick maracujà suspended above him. “The boys can finish painting it and we can prop some of the plant up on it tomorrow. Good job bru!”

I’m also pleased with it. The tidy up is fairly straight forward and we put the tools back in his shed as the day comes to an end. It was good to do something physical and the outcome is rewarding. Leaving my little mark here and using my skills to do something helpful is also a good feeling.

It is nice to sit and rest after shower and dinner. The couch is comfortable but the choice of television station is questionable at best. He only alternates between the religious preaching channel and some unbelievably graphic news – like, agenda based kind of graphic. The news is constantly focussed around Middle Eastern battlefields and Muslim related fighting. In fact, the same scenes are on a loop.

“You see what they do bru? You see what’s happening! I watch these two channels… I watch these Muslims killing in the name of their religion to remember what is really missing and necessary in the world. People are lost bru and finding God is the only hope we have!”

I hear murmuring behind me and realise that his workers have come to watch the television too. They sit outside and watch through the flyscreen, sitting in company as long as they can. When he decides to call it a night, I go to my rondavel and he rides his bike to the workshop to switch off the generator. The background humming dies way and the total blackness of the rural bush returns – immense and absolute – a thick blanket of shining stars tingling majestically where the generator no longer does.

It is still early and my healthy little period of cleaning living and early nights is in full swing.

There is time to explore, room to move and nature to investigate. He invites me to bring the Hilux to his workshop, which he opens and examines. He really knows every single hidden bolt and even which size spanner he will need for which part, right off the top of his head. I explain how I clean the air filter and show him the compressor, which he likes.

He does that same test with his thumb over an engine hose too. “See it’s not so bad yet. I could see because there is no white smoke coming from your exhaust when you drive. There is a product called Stop Smokey. Wait, I might have it here…” He rummages through his workshop and comes back empty handed, “It comes is a tin, like a tomato can. You buy that, and some thick oil like I told you. Get SAE 90… Not this stuff you have here, that’s nothing bru. You go under there with a container and open the sump. Be careful because it’s gonna come out fast bru, maybe 5 or 6 litres… Then you close the sump and put in this can of Stop Smokey OK? Let it run through the engine, it will clog up the little holes and gaps where the pressure is escaping when the pistons push down through the cylinders… It’s really good stuff, this one. Then you pour in the new oil and you will be alright bru, no problem!”

He is impressed with the suspension and laughs about the speedometer failing. “Aah that happens. It’s just a small cable. How’s the hand brake?” He looks at me and laughs at my expression. He really does know everything.

He still rides around with the .22 over his shoulder and I never get tired of that image! Keep an eye for monkeys bru,” he tells me, “If you see them, just be fast and shoot one!”

We rebuild the boxes where his hens lay eggs and I like working alongside his guys, although, their skills are poor and his constant screaming diminishes their initiative greatly. They tighten up and the resulting nerves lead to silly errors and more shouting.

Tarzan is always lurking and I press the big man on whether something can really be done for him. He rides home in search of his sedative and I walk into the bush with the .22 while he does so. It is quiet and peaceful among the trees. Raising the gun, I look through the scope, suddenly feeling strangely self-conscious to be alone with this thing. Following the goat tracks is more fun and interesting. Stalking them again – silently through the bush – I become aware of a faint and distant sound, out of place and muffled heavily in the surrounding growth. It is so quiet and vague that I doubt it is even real. But the direction from which it might be coming is somehow clear.

We meet again near his shed and I speak first, aroused. “Is it possible that I heard a chainsaw out there Fernando? I’m pretty sure man, from that direction there…” I point to the space between the goat and chicken coops, over the cashew plantation that I still haven’t seen. I was excited to report it but he seems unfazed by my possible discovery, shrugging it off – or possibly not even believing me.

“I looked everywhere and I couldn’t find the medicine. I even called my wife. I was sure there was some here but I can’t find it anywhere.” His face shifts to consideration as he glances across at Tarzan. Then he looks to me, but the uncertainty is his, “Maye we have to do this without anaesthetic somehow…” I see humility, possibly for the first time. Underneath the tough facade he is a kind man and his intentions are good. “But he’s a strong bastard and he won’t sit still for us. I know him. We have to hold him down hard. But he wriggles and slips, and then he bites too. I know him too well bru. And my guys are all scared of the dogs, they won’t even help us.”

I am quiet and we sit in the silence, both minds working, thinking up ways to restrain a dog or how to cut the foot. “One good shot with the panga… No painkiller.” He speaks first, searching me for a reaction. I have never seen such a thing, but I nod slowly. It is heavy, but the alternative is a slow and painful death. The mention of painkiller brings a thought. “What if you dose him up hard with Panadol? In his food or something?”

It’s a futile suggestion and I know it as the search for options continues, but he is sure that we won’t even get Tarzan in that position long enough anyway. “Or maybe shoot it off…” His words escape him and trail away just as quickly. My face changes as I try to envision that, but I don’t think it’s a real suggestion. That’s pretty savage. And not precise or effective enough.

“There’s a fair bit of skin still, you know? And it’s tough skin so it’s gonna hurt him.” He takes some scissors. “How can we try?” I guess it’s something new for him too as we close in on the dog. I take a rag and place it over the eyes as we begin to lay him on his side.

Tarzan tenses already as Fernando starts to apply pressure around his neck, pressing down harder on his head too. I also put my weight on the dog’s chest and shoulders, unprepared for what is coming next or even how to hold him properly. We take the injured paw, trying to see where exactly it must be cut when an incredible explosion of twisting and whining and bucking and growling takes us by surprise! Somehow Tarzan comes free from our grasp, screaming and lurching as he does so.

We automatically retreat, bouncing to our feet, “What the – Fucking bastard!” It is shock more than anything when Fernando’s boots rain down on the poor dog too, “We trying to fucking help you!” The dog whimpers away, and I am hit with sadness – because I know the future is now bleak for him. We were never even close to holding him, just as Fernando had predicted.

“You see bru!” Fernando exclaims, examining his bitten hand. “He won’t let us go near him. I know this dog too well. He’s a tough bastard…”

I can already see now that Tarzan won’t let us touch him again. We only ever had one chance and it was a slim chance to start off with. We weren’t decisive enough – weren’t even close – but we had to try something. I had to see it.

The days are in increments… In halves – before and after lunch – often with a good rest after that central meal, which seems to come around so quickly. A little siesta is always great with a full belly and the sun shining down.

“Let’s go for a drive eh?” Fernando takes the .22 from its place on top of the cabinet and we step from the kitchen veranda for another outing. “I want to drive around some of my land and see where these guys have been cutting.”

I suggest taking my car, but he also has a suitable 4WD and it makes sense for him to drive, he knows the way. We turn right onto the track and head back from where I had first come. It’s the first time returning to the bush – or being in a car – for some days, and it feels strange already. Maybe his car is smoother and more comfortable than mine.

“You see these tracks?” We follow them, left into the bush. They disappear briefly but they are evident enough, and fairly fresh.

Now there is a bigger clearing which has clearly had vehicle interference. “Scouts come through here first. They find the trees they want and mark the way to get to it,” he explains. Then they come back with two vehicles. They have the truck which they load, and a tractor which gets in and drags the trees back to the truck.”

So this flattened clearing here is where the tractor had dragged the logs back to for loading. Or one of the places. We follow the tracks further, they are very fresh, winding through the trees and ever deeper into the bush.

“You see what they do bru? To make the path for their trucks…” he shakes his head. “They might cut five or six trees just to get to the one they want. You see there?” There are trees down everywhere but he points to a particular stump surrounded by large branches, further off the track, “that’s what they leave behind, even from the ones they want!”

It is a horrible sight. I can’t tell if his disdain is aimed more to the men behind this, or at the destruction of the environment – of ‘his’ land. We only drive a short while more before we find the old truck sitting in the bush – half loaded – and eight or ten Africans perched or pushing or pulling ropes and levers to get another big log on board.

He’s not surprised in the slightest. Actually, he expected it.

Three big logs are still spread across the clearing, in line to be loaded next. The workers freeze when they see us arrive – worried, wide-eyed and guilty as sin. They really can’t hide their emotions and it’s kind of adorable.

Fernando steps from his car casually and calmly greets them. I see they all know each other as he plucks some grass to chew and walks into their midst. “You see how they load these big logs?” he says to me, “With brute force and ignorance!” he announces.

I find it impressive. Two strong timbers form a ramp from the side of the truck to the ground. One log is in position at the base of the ramp, ready to be rolled up. Two strong ropes have been tied to the truck, passed down the ramp, under the positioned log and back to the guys standing on the truck.

They stop what they are doing so I can’t see the action… but I get the idea, and it’s fascinating. “Yeh I see.” By pulling on the ropes, the log will start rolling up the ramp! Two guys stay underneath, propping it up with sticks to stop it rolling back as the guys pulling rest and readjust.

“Do you believe these stupid guys stand underneath the logs while the others are pulling it up!”

I was expecting him to scream and threaten and curse and intimidate. Instead we circle around to their smouldering fire, almost as friends dropping in for a visit. He is chatting and even joking with them, offering me meat from the big chunk that still sits over the coals. “They say it’s pig meat, if you want some bru?” The charred foot allows that possibility but I shake my head. It’s not a moral stand – I would eat it if I was here with them – but I am well fed already.

I can follow all their conversation but have no reason to speak. Besides – although I can understand – I definitely notice a difference between the Portuguese here and the way it sounded when I learned – which is interesting, but hardly surprising.

I like some of the men already, just by their face and their eyes and their body language and demeanour. Perception has been a long friend to me and I know I could get on well with lots of them if I met them in another way. We loop back towards the car and the meeting is apparently over. I give a last scan and a thumbs up before getting into the passenger seat, leaving them as we found them.

“That’s it?” I can’t help it, “What’s gonna happen next?”

“Ja bru, that’s it. Easy.” He is surprisingly calm. “Haha What did you expect? Did you think I was gonna shoot them or something? It’s easy – now we go for a drive around – we count how many trees they took, and I bill their boss.” He shrugs, “They take my trees and they pay what they’re worth, it’s expensive wood.”

“And he’s gonna pay you?”

“For sure. One of those trucks in my shed is his… I have the keys! Ja bru, he’ll pay me. Now let’s see… Look what they do. Look!” Shaking his head again and again.

“I told you I heard a chainsaw out here yesterday…” I look out my window. But he knew it all along.

He stops the car at more evidence of activity. A small camp has been set up. “This is not my land anymore. These guys are out here hunting… you see the weapons they make? They will trap an animal and stab it with this.” The stick leans against a tree – it has a steel spike crudely fixed to the end – a kind of hand held spear. He picks it up and hands it to me as he yells out into the bush. “They are away hunting… Or maybe even hiding.”

We walk through their little camp, between the cooking pots and small shelters made from branches and big foliage. There are even two small animal skins stretch out on the ground. He takes a piss further into the bush and then hurries back to the car, right for my door. Now I also see the monkeys traversing through the trees.

“Here!” He pulls back the bolt, loading the gun and handing it to me, “The safety is still on… Shoot the big male at the front! Wait for him to sit still.”

I can see them moving through the trees, but finding them through the scope is another story. All the trees look the same and I guess I have to be fast too. “Remember, line up the two crosshairs. Squeeze the trigger slowly.”

I flick the safety and find the monkeys but they are still all moving and hidden behind other trees, the alpha male leading the way like he said. When I see two monkeys through the scope I just pull the trigger, more concerned with how the recoil will feel than anything else.

“Ha! You missed! Here, maybe I’ll get a shot before they go…” He takes the gun and leans across his bonnet. “You gotta keep your head back from the scope…” His words slow as he concentrates but most of the monkeys are gone.

BANG!! Another shot rings out and I see the last small monkey jolt. It slowly leans back and then starts to fall, clasping onto the branch for a few moments, it battles to understand its fatal injuries before meeting death and dropping to the ground.

“Alright, come on… Go and get it!” My blank look sees him shoulder his weapon and stride off into the bush first, crunching thick underbrush with each step.

As we approach I start to lose my bearings. The tree where the monkey had last stood is really tricky to get to. “It’s down there, can you see? Go down there and get it.”

I can see it, lying dead down in a bush but I can’t access it. “Climb along that branch and go down there…” Shooting this poor thing was only half the battle. “Come on bru!”

I eventually get to the monkey and poke it to make sure it doesn’t bite me or something. I don’t handle dead monkeys every day and I start with the last tip of its long brown tail. Getting back to Fernando, I find myself wondering what would have happened if it wasn’t dead when we arrived. “What if it doesn’t fall from the tree when you shoot it?” I am following him back to the car, still suspending the little thing by its tail.

“You go up there and get it bru! That’s what my guys do…” Again he chuckles, “Here, put it in the boot.” He opens the back of the car for me and slams it shut after I lay the monkey inside.

“So do you know how many trees they took then?” We are circling around instead of going back to the loggers and it becomes fairly disorientating after a while.

Guinea Fowl cross our path from the right and fly up onto a branch, startled by our car. They are quite beautiful with a bright blue head and face. The flashing red crest contrasts sharply and the body, while big and black, is speckled evenly with white dots all over.

Fernando hits the breaks and again reaches for the rifle, coming around the front of the car and resting his elbows on the bonnet like he did before. The fetching birds remind me of my friend Kambonge, back in the Swakopmund markets, Namibia. We saw some together and I remember how he had hummed approvingly, “Hmmm it’s like African chicken, det one. Jaaa det good one for eating!”

Fernando obviously agrees and I stand behind him while he takes aim. BANG!! One of the two birds flaps and keeps flapping as it falls towards the ground.

“Now here…” Again he passes me the gun. We will eat these. “They don’t fly away when you miss so you can keep shooting!”

It is in plain sight and not nearly as far as the monkeys had been. I slide the bolt up and back and then forward and down. It is a satisfying sound and I rest my elbows as he had done, keeping my head further back from the scope as instructed. The bird appears large through the magnified lens and I can align the points easily with the new technique. BANG!! Flap, flap.

“OK nice! Flick the safety, let’s go!” I guess I didn’t miss this time, but Fernando’s eye is miles ahead of mine. “One went this way…” He starts searching a particular area. I can’t see anything. Then he reaches into a bush and raises the African chicken for me to see, throwing it limply to clear ground. “We’ll take it on the way back to the car, come on!” he marches on, “Your one flew over here somewhere.”

“What? How do you…” I start to protest but shut my mouth and follow. He moves well for the chubby character that I know him as – decisive and confident. Suddenly there is flapping in the bush and the injured bird starts racing from one side to another.

“Grab it!” He yells at me. As if I know what to do! It gets a little frantic for a moment but we are closing in on the injured Fowl. He lurches forward and plunges an arm down. Obviously this one isn’t dead and he takes it by the feet. “See bru… I knew it was here somewhere!” He steps towards me and swings the flapping bird sidewards – plop – cracking the back of its head against a tree as he passes it to me. “You carry it.”

I close my fist around it’s legs, feeling the body convulse and wings flap again. It reminds me of the boys that would quickly hold up the flailing chickens as I drove the rural roads, trying to make a sale. This is happening and I steel myself, listening for Fernando’s next test as I too whack the head on a log. “Do you remember where the car is?” It was a satisfying knock and I am sure this thing must be dead now. I don’t want to look at it, but I also kind of do.

I have a fair idea where we walked and point in the general direction from where we came. He grunts satisfactorily, but – even though we left the first fowl in the open – he is much better at locating it than I apparently am.

The dead weight is heavier than I imagined and – in the excitement – we went further into the bush than I realised, but I don’t dare complain when he hands me the other one to carry too.

“Ja we gonna eat lekker tonight bru! I show you how we cook this eh!”

He instructs his workers to smoke the monkey and clean the fowls for us when we arrive home. “They get the skin and head and guts… they will eat anything bru, I’m telling you!” His top lip curls in disapproval, “No wonder they die so young…”

A lunch and siesta is very appealing now, but I walk towards it picturing the filthy oil in which I have seen any measure of unknown animal parts frying and bubbling along the roadsides.

“Do you want to say grace tonight?” Dinner is served. We prepared the fowl together, steamed in the oven with a lid so it doesn’t get too tough. It looks and smells delicious, a complete and rewarding event.

“Umm.. well. Errr.” I clear my throat and put my palms together, crossing all the fingers through each other. “Yeh, OK. Dear Lord let us give thanks for this memorable day and this fantastic time we are sharing together. Accept our gratitude for the food we are about to eat and for these animals that have given themselves to nourish us. Lord thank you for guiding me here on my path for this experience and keep us safe through the night ahead to enjoy another excellent day tomorrow. Amen.”

“Amen. Very nice bru,” he is pleased and smiles, “you speak from the heart and that’s what’s important. Thank you. Now let’s dig in!”

“Hmmm mmm wow!” Delicious. It is more gamey than ordinary chicken. It is still tender and the fresh herbs we added bring fantastic flavour. Of course the potatoes and broccoli and tomatoes are also from the garden and dinner once again, is incredible. A pleasure. I really am blessed and give thanks.

“I just got some news about Dani… You know, the girl I told you that was travelling with me before I came here…” He knows who she is. We have talked about everything over the week since my arrival. “She has been really sick. Like, really sick. Apparently she almost died, man!” It’s really sad news and I’m hoping she is healing and recovering in good hands, sending her my best. “She apparently got malaria while she was with me.” She said she had started feeling very weak, feverish and nauseous when she arrived in Madrid. “They say the medicine we bought together saved her life. Luckily, she started taking it when she felt bad and then got herself to a hospital when she could.” She has been in hospital for days now and is still bed ridden.

Our conversation spirals along that topic of which, of course, Fernando also has knowledge. “There is malaria out here, for sure. We never had a problem because we eat the crushed papaya seeds, it’s a natural preventative. But we also have the medicine here in case people in the community get sick. I mean, everybody gets it sooner or later… but it’s nothing to fear.”

We discuss diet and general health philosophies. “Of course bru… You have to fuel yourself and keep your body strong in order for your defences to perform!” I had told Dani the same thing. Being vegetarian is fine, but you can’t run for 12km each day and live off half a papaya. “Your body needs a wider range of nourishment to sustain all the different organs and functions and systems, to work well and be strong.”

“Malaria attacks the red blood cells,” Fernando continues. “They come from your bone marrow and your kidneys, ja. You need meat and liver or kidneys and spinach, at least eggs and lentils bru! That’s why out here, they have more defence against it already… How is she doing now?”

“It sounds like she’s not doing well at all actually. I’ll keep in touch with her…” We allow a quiet moment under the unfortunate news.

Over dinner and around the place we have covered lots of subjects and I have heard countless stories, mostly regarding his religion and his ignorant workers.

I know about the big cook ups that he and his wife put on in the closest town, donating meals and books and clothes and produce from the property. I have heard about the harvest times when there are dozens of workers picking mangoes and cashews and pineapples and I have been told about the church that he built along the way to the main road, “You will pass by it when you leave here…”

He has some very lovely ideals of giving and sharing and creating and loving and I appreciate that he uses his religion for gratitude and relevance to his visions and progress.

His frustrations lay in – what he sees – as a lack of drive from the locals. No interest to learn or develop; to better themselves for propulsion out of their poverty.

They broke into his workshop, pulling off the roof to steal the snares he had taken from the surrounding bush. Countless stories of theft to accompany this one.

“Do you not see all these locks everywhere? I have to lock everything! They will bloody steal everything you can imagine. And then they will lie about it, crying to your face with real tears bru!” He lets his images sink in, and they do. “One kitchen boy begged me to give him a job outside… because he had to steal from my kitchen if he was alone in here. He begged me for that bru.”

“They just don’t think like us. If you have no food, wouldn’t you try to at least feed your children first?” He tells me that the parents here will eat before their children as they are the ones that need energy to work. “Ja bru! If one of their kids die, they just,” he makes a fist and slaps the thumb into the palm of the other hand, “make another one, that’s all. They don’t care about anything! They don’t think, they don’t build. They just destroy!”

Images seem to automatically jump to mind, conveniently obliging his words. Like the lack of development that I too, have noticed. Or back from Jonathon’s sentiments – the guy in South Africa that had first illustrated the term ‘flat nose.’ He seemed to have similar views, though possibly with less contempt, and less about such personal aspects. It’s hard to know what to think really. These white guys grown in Africa have a different upbringing. Different circles and another education entirely and result in a different mindset.

It’s not wrong – though it can seem and sound wrong. Who am I to judge? What would I know?

He articulates his views passionately, and I take it all as gospel, devouring every image as I am delivered each story with utter certainty. But the thoughts we have – and the energy we give them – becomeour reality! Obviously, if we create something and then believe it long and hard enough, then of course those things will be real for us.

I can’t help but feel some kind of sympathy, come kind of compassion to the apparent hardship of these people. Though I see the outcomes – the results – where I suppose Fernando sees and deals with immediate behaviour or patterns.

It just feels easy to sit in this luxurious place and condemn themfor stealing garlic or eggs or anything else that might benefit their lives. It still seems like judgement from the outside. And that is always the problem with people’s judgement. He doesn’t allow for the dominance and power and disadvantage. It would all be more digestible if the playing field was levelled. He isn’t living out in the dark with his workers – night after night after night. Getting fed shit because that’s what he thinks they eat. With a wife and family at home, elsewhere in the bush, also struggling. He isn’t living out in those shacks that I passed along the road, collecting muddy rainwater to drink from the road. Uneducated and penniless with no electricity and no medicine for his sick and hungry children.

They are ‘lazy’ because working day after day for white man’s money is not how their time is best invested. And they probably need snares to supplement their food, surely? Not that I agree with snaring animals in that horrible way. But Fernando’s belly is full, and I’m sure they don’t run around with home-made spears for entertainment.

It is still a pleasure to be on this property that is well and truly its own ecosystem and I am sad to be leaving tomorrow. It feels like I have spent a lifetime and I have possibly learned as much. The value in building and hosting and creating such a place outstretches your direct reach. The satisfaction returning in the form of opportunity for others to be and grow and help and learn.

I allow the idea of perhaps making a similar life in my future – somewhere with a comparable climate. I talk about maybe doing such things, in Australia or elsewhere. In the north where it’s warmer.

“haha yeh? Call me bru, I will come to help you if you like? Ja, why not?”

“It has been awesome to come here… I have learned a lot and loved it all!” I am thanking him for the opportunity, the time invested and experience gained. “And you’re still the only mad bastard I know that has ever shot a mouse with a .22 in your own kitchen!”

We laugh and he likes that one.

The 22 calibre bullet hole is hardly noticeable in the flyscreen wall – well worth the story and hilarious image of him loading and shooting the rifle from somewhere near his dining table at a little mouse sitting on an empty ledge!

I watch the workers rake leaves and push wheelbarrows. I still can’t help but see Fernanado as this apartheid kind of missionary character out here on his settlement and I am more than comfortable to voice the thought. “You know, it just seems like nothing has really changed… Like, from apartheid and stuff.”

He laughs easily, “Of course nothing has changed bru. The only difference is that now they work for money instead of food… And now you don’t beat them!”

That irrelevant fantasy cloud that is political correctness from where I have come seems odd here –ridiculous. A privileged white person’s model – guilt-ridden and responsibility free – which has long since left my peripheral.

There’s no need for it and though I am still fumbling with it, my awareness has changed quickly. It’s not bad or hateful. It just is. He uses an example, “If I tell my guys that somebody is coming tomorrow and I might not be around to meet him. Even they want to know if he is black or white… They ask me, “Patrão, ele é preto ou branco?” Because that’s just how it is bru. It’s not a whitething… It’s a just a reality,you understand? I don’t know how it is where you come from, but there is a difference and that is a fact.”

“My visa ends in a couple days…” I like to think he will miss having me around too. We have done some cool things together and I know how to be helpful and learn fast. We exchange Facebook details and I go over to give Tarzan some love. His foot is more swollen than it was a week ago and I quietly wish him a good journey.

I prepare my car and pack my things, putting aside a 20L jerry can of diesel and 5L of my useless engine oil. I look to the trees and the bush and my home away from home and – after a last breakfast – move my car onto the road for the last departing moments. The oil and diesel containers are ferried away to the workshop and Fernando comes forward with bags of tomatoes and onions and carrots. Three big papaya and all these bananas are more than I can eat, but it won’t go to waste.

“Now you give these to the Police when they stop you… That’s what I do bru!” He leaves a stack of books on my passenger seat and I quickly translate something about Hope and Saviour from Portuguese. “You tell them that instead of stealing people’s money, they should go forward and find God in their life! He will provide them with all that they need.”

Aah Fernando. Shaking hands with the boys I have worked alongside, I then take Fernando’s palm in mine. A final embrace sees him pushing me towards the driver’s seat.

“Thank you bru. You are always welcome here. We will be waiting for you… God Bless!” I am sad to leave this wonderful haven in the lonely desert and in minutes, will be alone again. I start the engine and he smiles mercifully, “I hope to see you… But if not, we will meet again in paradise brother!”

I rev my baby and don’t get a kilometre before the monkeys wave me on too. The biggest male stands proud and I swear he is even laughing. Well, I am at least.

Central Mozambique is as rural and lonely as it seemed a week ago. Children run in the cleared yards of simple houses and again these forgotten people strike me as over-looked. Abandoned. Helpless.

“Tem trabalho para mim chefe?” A guy asks me for work as I come off the trail and slow enough to turn right on to the tar road, Malawi bound. He wants work and maybe I look like someone that could give it to him.

It’s just not a country for foreigners to come and have ‘fun.’ It’s hard enough for ‘travellers’ with minimal requirements… There is a total lack of infrastructure outside of what locals use and expect. The language barrier is a bigger issue than usual – Portuguese is the broad language, though different tribal languages are still very much used, basically everywhere. Road access to much of the country approaches non-existence. Transport is just terrible and tourism is as minimal as imaginable.

What makes it hard, is that locals are not confident or drawn to you or helpful or engaging. They are alone and decrepit, fending for themselves and suffering miserably. Disease and lack of drinking water are immediate concerns for the rural population, let alone poverty and lack of education.

The strive to survive is real – constant – and made near impossible with the lack of basic agriculture and construction knowledge. They eat maize meal and cassava root – supplemented with any animal they can catch and the simplest vegetables. Life expectancy is under 40 years and child mortality is astronomical.

You are really on your own in Mozambique. With few exceptions, there aren’t places where you go drinking and sightseeing and trade stories with other like-minded people. Here, I have seen some of the most isolated and forgotten places that I could have imagined. It occurs to me that this must be among the poorest countries in the world – which is later confirmed beyond exaggeration.

The car is quiet and I reflect on Fernando and my time on his property. Leaving his presence – his spell – I consider how to ‘judge’ or ‘summarise’ a person. I ask simply, “How would the world be if everyone was like him?” I think of his tough views and outdated morals, of taking the law into your own hands and kicking the dog when you can’t pin him down. I think of his tunnel vision to his own denomination and the engineered views he uses on Muslim violence.

I think of him giving thanks before meals and spreading generosity into a needy community, the tenderness in which he handles his plants and the pride in providing for his family. He is good to his workers, but treats them harshly because of what hethinks about them. If he went to the Middle East and saw how innocent Muslims live, he would be gentle and kind with them also – as he was with me who didn’t follow his religion.

We are fundamentally good, but react to things that we are told or shown, things that we do not explain or understand. A survival mechanism, a defence designed to assist with what we otherwise know as truth.

I had a chance to speak out, to perhaps come here with some kind of purpose and possibly also leave something behind to consider. But I didn’t – I didn’t know how. I was never equipped to stand against him. Not here, in this space – in his presence – where I might even have allowed him to challenge the spelling of my own name.

Change is always possible, though examples must be engaged and time released to explore such horizons. Once again, I am gone in five minutes and a place like this will operate as it always has.

I wonder though, how I might sound – how I share some of these things with my friends back home. The world is real and these are the back streets, out of view and out of mind. Where issues and relationships are complex, and realities long standing. People have been here and disturbed and ruffled and damaged things long before I came along and wanted it all to be ‘nice.’ It is not a cute little parcel to be conveniently packaged as an ideological sentence, daring not offend some sensitive bed wetter sitting far away in a safely protected environment, talking about what’s right and fair.

I suppose this is one of my bigger single experiences so far in Africa, despite having been here for almost six months. I just might be at the gate now, approaching a paradigm which allows a perspective that, in turn, could possibly lead to some kind of understanding – some kind of shift – for which I could never dare have asked. That holy grail for a traveller that is seeking genuine and uncomplicated insights. Well, that all remains to be seen.